


I'll Help You Stitch Up Your Wounds

by beneduck_cucumberpatch



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Cocaine, Depression, Drug Abuse, Gen, Guilt, Marijuana, Mdma, Self-Harm, self hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beneduck_cucumberpatch/pseuds/beneduck_cucumberpatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had no reason to be this way. He has the best person in the world as his friend and he's far from poor. He should be happy. He didn't expect his life to turn out this way.</p><p>But things don't always go as planned, do they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Help You Stitch Up Your Wounds

Fucking idiot.   
Sherlock covered his face then ran his fingers through his thick black curls. Fucking idiot. He knew that what he did was wrong. He knew every time. Guilt would seep into his veins and he'd bleed shame each night he made that same mistake. His mobile, a bright light in his dim room, chimed, signaling a text. He knew it'd be John, the only person who really talked to him. He reached for it and unlocked his mobile with shaking hands. John had said that his father was alright with Sherlock spending the night; a rarity. He'd go, like he always does. This time he'd fix his problem. Sherlock needed a witness, someone else to prove that this would never happen again.   
John didn't know. Or, if he did, he was silent about it. Sherlock intended to keep John far from this. He felt enough shame looking at what he'd done himself, he didn't need someone else to back that up. Sherlock flicked on his lamp and reached for what he needed. He grabbed a small box which once held a wallet and put all the blades into the four walls of cardboard, then wrapped it more times than necessary in packing tape. John expected him in an hour, giving him enough time to shower and get to John's house. 

 

Sherlock stood in front of John's door, knocking gently. He'd just pulled on a shirt and a pair of jeans, then a thin jacket he'd make an excuse to wear inside. His backpack hung from his shoulders and the small box lay inside, a heavy weight Sherlock was suddenly unsure he truly wanted to rid himself of. He waited as the door opened and John smiled to him. Sherlock sliced back and offered a greeting, then was ushered in. John's father, short with wide shoulders not unlike John's, gave a cursory hello, looking back to the television and sipping at his beer. They went up to John's bedroom and Sherlock let his bag fall by the door.   
"Can we go out later tonight? I need to get rid of something," he blurted, sinking into John's bed. John nodded, giving him a questioning look.   
"What is it?"  
Sherlock hesitated, "Doesn't matter." He swallowed, looking away from John.   
John was skeptical, of course, but agreed. He'd ask about it once it was gone. They'd wait until it was dark and John's father was asleep before sneaking out the back door, a shovel in John's hands and the tightly wrapped box in Sherlock's. They walked for a few minutes in silence, looking for somewhere to bury the small box. 

 

"Here," he pointed with his foot, once they were far enough away from the house. "Right here."  
John nodded, digging the shovel into the ground. "Are you gonna tell me what this is now? I'm getting pretty worried, Sherlock."  
Sherlock shook his head, "Not until it's in the ground and gone."   
Perhaps he was stalling; he didn't care. He regretted taking John all this way out for this and making him do all the work.   
"Give me the shovel I'll finish it," he took it from John and filled the ground with dirt, putting the Earth back where it belonged with the box trapped underneath. He packed it down with the shovel for a while before stomping on it with his foot. The space was no different from the area around it now. The box had been buried.   
Gone.   
"What did we just bury?" John licked his lips, eyes moving over Sherlock slowly, trying to read the boy. He wasn't looking at him, though, but instead down at the ground where the object was under the dirt. His jacket, a dark blue cotton, had dirty sleeves from the dirt being moved and his black trainers were tinted a messy brown on the toe and just above the sole.   
He gripped the shovel with both his hands, now, and fiddled with a dent in the light wood. He let the tool fall perpendicular to his body, then walked slowly back where they came.   
"I've been doing something stupid, John. Very, very stupid and I'm an idiot. I-- it's not--," he stopped looking down as his eyes began to burn, "I'm sorry. I'm am idiot for starting this and I don't know what I was thinking. I started before I knew you and I swear I've been trying to stop but nothing's ever been permanent and I’m fixing it now, John. I'm putting all of them in a box and I'm stopping." He folded his arms to his body  
John watched his friend, moving to put a hand on his back in attempt to comfort him, "Sherlock, no, you're not an idiot. What did you do? It's okay, I won't tell anyone. You have to tell me what happened, alright? Do you want to sit down?" Sherlock shook his head, covering his face. He didn't want John to see him like this.   
"I hurt myself, John. I tell myself I won't and then I go and I do it anyway. I think I might be insane," he took a shuddering breath, feeling a few stray tears betray him, "You know what they do to people who go around cutting up other people? They put them in prison. Because they're insane. No one can find out. No one can know about this, John." He shook his head again, folding his arms close to his chest.  
John took Sherlock into his arms, keeping him close. They'd stand in silence for a few moments that seemed to last forever. Sherlock wanted to melt into the earth, buried beside the box that all his problems seemed to become intensified through. The silence in his mind he craved. The moment, no matter how short, where he could focus on just one thing instead of the endless noise around him. He cried, soaking the grey fabric on John's shoulder, as John kept him close. Eventually they separated. Sherlock wasn't sure who pulled back first but didn't entirely care. He sunk to the floor beside John, pulling his knees to his chest.   
"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's okay. We're alright. I'll help you, okay?"   
"Maybe there isn't a way for you to help me. Maybe I'm too far gone." He stood up, wiping his eyes on the sleeves of his jacket and sniffing. "We should go home. It's cold."  
John nodded, bending to pick up the shovel and rubbed at Sherlock's back. They walked back to John's house in silence. Sherlock had calmed himself down and looked more put together. When the shovel was back in the garage and they were back in John's bedroom he chose to speak again.   
"You're not too far gone. We can fix this. We just need to make sure you don't do it again. I mean. Easier said than done, I guess. Just. Talk to me, Sherlock," he ran his fingers through his short blonde hair, "just tell me what's going on. Why did you do that? Why didn't you come talk to me?"  
Sherlock took a breath and let his toes wiggle in John's light blue bedding, "It's complicated, John. I'm trying to fix it myself and I didn't want to drag you down into it. I don't know how to fix this, so I'm just going to stop. Cold turkey. That'll fix it, right? So it's what I’m  
doing." He licked his lips, something he picked up from John.   
"Right. Okay. Yeah. We'll-- Yeah. Sherlock," he groans, covering his face, "When you want to, you text me, okay? I'm pretty much always available. Text me. I don't care when I promise I'll text back as fast as I can."  
Sherlock nodded. He regretted dragging John into all of this and realized he should've gone and buried it himself. At least if someone knew he would think more before doing it.   
"And you're okay? Do you need.. Stitches? Are they clean?" John asked slowly.   
Sherlock nodded again, bringing his left arm closer to himself, "I don't need stitches and everything's clean. I'll be fine." John didn't need to see. 

 

John changed the subject, not wanting to dwell. Sherlock understood the situation and knew that he didn't need to discuss it anymore. They watched a film and Sherlock left the next morning. They lay in bed, Sherlock staring at the ceiling and John to the leftmost wall. Sherlock got up first, sitting up to look over to John.   
"I'm sorry for last night, you know," he looked down to John, "I didn't want you to know about it."  
John nodded, "I know. But. I was serious about what I said. You’re going to text me when you feel like you wanna," he trailed off, figuring Sherlock could fill in the blank. Sherlock would find alternatives, he decided, and wouldn’t use John as a crutch.   
He may have plenty of vices, but dependency would never be one of them. 

Sherlock felt guilty texting John when he had urges. He’d avoid it as much as he could. He wasn’t about to move from depending on something destructive to taking up John’s time. Alternatives would need to be found. He tried everything he could: squeezing ice cubes, ripping paper, screaming into pillows. Nothing worked quite the same. He was left with an itch he had to scratch. He had to figure something out soon.   
He didn’t think it’d be something that stuck. When he bought it he figured he’d only smoke a little bit as a pick-me-up. Just something to get him through the harder nights. John could never know, of course, but it’d not be hard to hide. He knew what they said about marijuana; gateway drug and all that. None of that was true, though, was it?  
Sometimes it wasn’t enough. It was months later and sometimes just pot wasn’t enough. He needed a bit more to calm his mind. He craved the silence in his mind. This was better than what he’d done before, wasn’t it? Of course he still got urges but it was a perfectly fine temporary fix.   
A temporary fix was all he needed.  
Until it wasn’t.  
He found something better. MDMA made him feel better than he ever had before. He was comfortable. He felt his anxiety lift and he felt good for the first time in a long while. When he came down, though, it was worse than ever before. He felt so much worse. He felt so empty that it only made sense to do it again to make himself feel better. What was the harm if he could feel good for a while?  
John noticed his improved mood on the nights he’d text him. Sherlock felt better.   
For now.  
His crashes were getting worse and he was taking more to fix it. He told himself how careful he was. He’d rather be doing this than feeling like shit like he was before.  But soon that wasn’t enough for him. Sherlock got curious about other things. Wouldn’t hurt to try something else. The box was buried deep in the Earth and he hadn’t touched it since, which he took as meaning he was better.

 

The first time Sherlock did cocaine he was eighteen. He and John were still just as close and John hadn’t found out about what he’d been doing. Cocaine gave him a rush he’d never felt before. He felt like he could do anything. He had the energy he’d never had before. He felt on top of the world.  
And he called John.

"Sherlock? It’s late. Are you okay? You usually don’t call," he sounded worried, but Sherlock didn’t register it.   
"Okay? I’m brilliant. Fantastic, even. I could do anything! Let’s go out, John. Let’s go do something," he was already pulling on a pair of shoes as he spoke, "I don’t care what we do, John, really. We could do anything! I— You know. You’re great. Absolutely wonderful."  
"Sherlock, what? Where are you?" Sherlock spoke over him as he talked, then stopped suddenly, and answered.  
"Yeah, I’m home. I’m coming over," he sniffed once, "I’ll be there soon."  
John was quiet for a moment, "Sherlock?"  
"John?" Sherlock laughed, then sniffed again.  
"Sherlock, are you high? What’re you on?"  
"Oh. John. John," he sniffed again, "I’ll be there in a minute, I’m leaving the house now." The line went silent.  
John sat on his bed for a moment and panicked. What the hell had Sherlock done? He wanted to make sure his best friend was okay. He pulled on a pair of shoes and began walking towards Sherlock’s house, hoping to catch him before he did something stupid. He found Sherlock halfway between their houses.  
"Sherlock?" he asked, moving closer and putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He was starting to come back down again, "Sherlock, let’s go to my house, yeah?"  
He needed more. "I think I might go back home, actually, I forgot to grab something."  
John wasn’t having that. He took Sherlock’s arm, "What the hell were you thinking, Sherlock? What did you take? We need to take you to a hospital or something. Why would you do this?" John pulled him towards his house, "Come on, Sherlock. You’re gonna lay down at my place for a while."  
Sherlock suddenly felt guilty, but he wasn’t sure why. He followed John carefully, the urge to run back to where he left the rest of it steadily getting stronger. They got to John’s house and he locked the bedroom door behind them. "Lay down." It wasn’t a request, it was a demand. Sherlock did as he was told, the edges of a high still on him. He shouldn’t’ve done this.  
"What the hell, Sherlock?"  
"I thought it might help," he tried, looking up to the ceiling. His eyes began to burn, but he wasn’t about to cry in front of John. Not again.  
"Help? Sherlock! When the fuck do drugs help anyone? What did you take? You need to tell me what you took." John took a seat in the chair by his desk, looking over to Sherlock.   
"John—"  "Tell me."  
"Cocaine."  
John paused in disbelief. "Cocaine? You took fucking cocaine?" He took a a deep breath, "Sherlock Holmes you did not take cocaine! How long have you been doing this? Why would you tart doing cocaine?" He tried to calm himself down. Yelling at Sherlock wouldn’t work in this situation.   
"I thought it’d.. help. I don’t know. I— It. It helped with when I was feeling bad."  
They sat in silence and eventually Sherlock rolled over on the bed, his back facing John.   
"I told you that you could text me, Sherlock. When you were feeling upset. Remember? Why didn’t you? You’re my friend I’m supposed to be able to help you."  
Sherlock refused to speak. He pulled his knees to his best and kept silent, listening to the room around them. He felt nothing but guilt now. This was worse than when he’d cut, isn’t it? He thinks about how he’d let himself get this far.   
"I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not worth your time. I thought I was done with ruining myself. Guess I wasn’t. I figured being high was better than… But it doesn’t matter now, does it?"   
John puts his face in his hands, "Sherlock—"  
"I’m not done. It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter because you shouldn’t need to deal with me. I don’t deserve you, John, and you don’t deserve what I do. I’m a horrible friend. I don’t know why you’d want to know someone like me in the first place. You should’ve ran when you found out I was cutting myself. I told you, John, I’m insane. I’ve been self destructing since I was thirteen and by time you found out it was too late, wasn’t it? At least I’m not doing that, right? Only consumed three years I’ll never get back. Then I pull this. You should run while you still can, John."  
"Are you done, then?" John asked quietly.   
"Done what?"  
"Are you done? It’s a simple question. You don’t have to be doing this to yourself. I stayed by choice, didn’t I? You didn’t make me stick around. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to get out of here but where am I, Sherlock?" He didn’t wait for a answer, "I’m here. Now let me help you. I want to help you and I can help. You have to fix yourself but let me help you, Sherlock. You’re my best friend. I care about you more than I care about anyone else on this stupid Earth. So we’re going to get you off this cocaine shit and we’re going to make sure you never use anything illegal again. Yeah?"  
Sherlock was silent for a while before answering back with a quiet, "Yeah."  
John watched him carefully, then sighed, "Right. So. How long have you been doing this?"  
Sherlock paused, thinking. "Two years, I think. Yeah. Two." He sighed. How had he let himself get this far? He was disgusted with himself. He let himself sink deeper and ignored John when he promised to call him. He shouldn't be allowed to hurt people like this.   
Maybe he should end it.   
"Do you have any idea how much I care about you? You're my best friend, Sherlock, and I didn't want you to feel this way. I can't let you destroy yourself like this," John licked his lips and looked over to Sherlock, who slowly roles to his back.   
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice broken. He meant it.   
And he would mean it until the day he died. He shouldn't be such a burden on John. John was so, so much better than him. John got up from his chair and motioned Sherlock to scoot over before kicking off his shoes and laying down beside his friend. He’d have to try to get better.

 

For John.

**Author's Note:**

> I might write more of this but for now this is the end.


End file.
